“Just go west on C, that’s the street right out front, and you’ll run right into 15th Street.”
Laura glanced around. The other two patrons were gone, and she and Dot were alone. “How long since he last played here?”
“A few months ago, at least.”
“Can you remember when the recital was?”
“What is this?”
Laura produced her badge and ID.
“I don’t have to talk to you.”
“I know, but I wish you would.”
“What did he do?”
“Nothing, that I know of. He’s one of many people we’re looking at who might know something about a crime in Arizona.”
“What kind of crime?”
“Do you mind if I ask the questions at the moment? I promise I’ll tell you what I know if you’ll just humor me.”
Dot’s eyes darkened. Definitely hostile.
Laura asked, “At the recital. Did he spend a lot of time with the girls?”
“What do you mean?”
“Did he enjoy their company more than that of adults? Did you notice anything like that?”
Dot’s mouth flatlined. “You’ve got it all wrong. That doesn’t sound like Jimmy at all.”
“You may be right. But why don’t you think it sounds like Jimmy?”
“He’s … it’s hard to explain. You don’t know what he looks like in person. He’s kind of small. You ever read that story about Walter Mitty? He’s like that. And respectful of women.”
“How do you mean?”
“He was raised up right. You can tell. He’s almost old-fashioned—giving up his seat at the bar when the place is full or opening the door, just a bunch of ways.”
“Do you know his family?”
“No.” She took a deep breath. “All I know is he minds his own business, and I can’t see him wanting to hurt little girls. It just doesn’t fit the kind of person he is.”
Laura thought Jimmy de Seroux was precisely the type of man who would go after little girls.
Inadequate.
30
The windows of the twin- gabled Victorian cottage on Fifteenth Street were dark. The yard was overgrown and leaves from the enormous live oak out front littered the roof. Wild vines snarled and matted the screened-in porch, as dark and secretive as the night surrounding it.
Hand near her weapon, Laura stepped into the porch and knocked on the door. She expected and got no answer. Although the place was neat and had been kept up, it had an abandoned feel to it, as if its owner had been gone for a while.
A breeze blew, heavily laden with the smell of the gulf, and a few acorns pelted the walk. Grass grew between the cracks.
He wasn’t here. The feeling Laura had about Jimmy de Seroux solidified. He hadn’t been here in a long time. Months maybe.
She glanced around. The house next door was boarded up. The rest of the street was quiet, a mixture of large houses and small. A few porch lights were on. But nobody looking out their windows, nobody on their front porches, no one driving by. It was too hot, even at this time of night.
Laura walked along the side of the house, peering at the windows. Most of them were draped, but she could see through the back door into the kitchen. She flashed her light, holding her hand over the top to keep the glare down.
Yellow linoleum. Honey-maple cabinets. Very neat. A Felix the Cat clock on the wall.
She closed her eyes. Smelled the fecund earth, growing things. The slight mildew smell of the concrete. She tried to absorb the vibrations of the place, put herself into his place.
She knew he was gone. Traveling.
A breeze shifted the massive oak branches, their shadows playing over the crushed gypsum drive to the right of the lawn, bone-white against lush darkness. There was a cleared space beside the drive, scars on the grass where someone had parked.
An old truck sat inside a carport fashioned from banged-together wood and corrugated plastic sheeting. Parked behind the truck, was a smallish boat covered by a blue tarp. The truck fit Peter Dorrance’s description— a 1967 Chevrolet pickup. Blue, dented, and splotched with rust around the wheel wells.
She walked around and peered through the side window, which had been cracked a couple of inches. Old, but
